The Fast Food Joint
by ryuusei NOuta
Summary: Shikamaru's favourite fast food joint becomes the backdrop to his week-long dream of Ino, random topics and awful piano sonatas.


The Fast Food Joint

Chapter 1

He said to himself,

"One would think that finding our own well trodden path would be a treacherous journey in itself. But one just cannot say 'Hold up, let's think for a second here' and just sit by the pavements and ponder. As the noise of the next song beckons, you're waiting for that exact moment when the track changes. That sudden explosion of her C# minor chord, awash in a bit of fuzz and a huge smattering of overdrive, a twinge of delay (the guitarist is a she after all) then after the staccatos, you literally lose track of what it was you were pondering about, still sitting there on the pavement.

And there goes five years of your life. Just like that.

But then it just gets way too noisy for your liking and you, rightfully so, stopped listening. That's the exact moment where reality, like a cunt, slams upon your ribcage. Absolutely crushes and obliterates them. And here you are. Maybe there. Maybe lightyears away in a wormhole. Endlessly beaten down in a vortex of things that happened which you wished never happen. And also things that would never happen that you dream of happening sometime soon. Or regretfully, things that you wanted happen, should've happened but critically, fizz away in such undramatic circumstances. And the next song will be a school food punishment number, with all its electronics schmelectronicks".

Why did she have to exist within his (admittedly tiny) sphere of livelihood? That was the only thing Shikamaru wondered about lately. Like an impulsive stream of consciousness, he was whistling the tune of times past (last week) when life was simpler, when decisions were not influenced by a sway of that person's long wavy golden locks, when half the time his mind seem frozen, maybe melting just because of a waft of that person's lotion scent.

Yes. Shikamaru has lost his mind.

He still remembered that evening, though vague, the air was unmistakably 'spongey'. Only Shikamaru could come up with such out-of-touch terms to describe something unquantifiable. Air, for instance. Though most would probably, rightfully argue that air is indeed quantifiable. But that can wait. Save that for some random elitist internet forum discussion.

Dir en Grey was wailing through his AudioTechnicas. Which was rather jarring for an indie listener as him. He had this odd, though not uncommon, way of pinning down certain excerpts of memories with the songs he was listening to at the time. For that two week period, Different Sense. For his first foray into puberty, Out of the Woods by Foals. How apt, says his then poorly hidden soiled briefs.

He clearly recalled that whimpering sound Kyo gurgled before the guitar solo. That point, he punctuated, was when he finally acknowledged (actual) attraction to her. Especially her bone white, perfectly aligned teeth. Had she been aware of this bit of trivia, she would probably have said something like, "About time!" or "My teeth?". Standard.

But why, after all these months of interaction and (blatant) advances by her, was that the moment he finally succumbed to her obvious womanly charms? Both of them privately puzzled over this fact. She put it down to the new perfume she used at the time. Gucci Hormone. Or was it Nina Ricci's Ensnare? Maybe Paco Rabanne's Persistent Girl. No, it was definitely Armani Subtlety. She can think what she wants. Shikamaru could sort of put a finger to the cause of this breaking down of his defenses.

It was obviously his continuous, episodic, week-long dream he had about her. And oh how vivid it was, says his soiled boxers this time round.

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The fast food joint stuck out like the proverbial thumb, jutting out in the corner of uniformly brick coloured minimum wage apartments. Loud, tacky colours from every shade of red and yellow imaginable. Its run-of-the-mill burger logo obscenely pasted over the glass door. It was huge as well, practically screaming for attention. It was, simply put, an eyesore of a fastfood joint. And precisely because of it, Shikamaru failed to recall the name of the said establishment. It was always 'that fast food joint' to him.

At the top of his head, Shikamaru could easily list out the negatives, things that'll put off customers forever, generally awful things about this fast food joint. It was noisy. Always blaring out RnB or pop drivel at maximum volume. The people were noisy. Especially on those dreaded Tuesday nights (Student night offers) where you would find every type of drunken youths available. Did he mention loud? Yes. They were excessively, ear bleedingly loud. Loud enough to warrant a punch to the noggins. Who cares if they're girls!

On these nights, all walks of life would stream out, footsteps the exact opposite of straight and true. It would not be rare to see a Thundercat with a blonde smurf girl obnoxiously tearing each other's clothes off, tongue crashing tongue, backs against the fast food joint windows. On any given night you'd also spot junkies and/or hobos ordering a pizza and end up not paying, successfully running away with the prized 14" Tandoori Kiev. Of course the fast food staff gave chase. Half the time they'd come back empty handed. And would serve the next schmuck with a gold standard smile. Would you like fries with that? The fastfood joint was a beehive for such creatures.

And yet Shikamaru finds himself coming back for more. Despite these (numerous) shortcomings, he finds the fast food joint rather endearing. Hell, the food was cheap. They make a mean cheeseburger. Greasy and dirty, yes. But plentiful and blissfully filling. But a few hours later he'd find himself in the pits, loathing himself and feeling sick to his stomach. Or was that one of his rogue drunken misadventures/one night stands?

Either way, like a good friend, the fast food joint was a shoulder to lean on. Those days when he needed solid guys to talk to, whereby the fastfood staff would provide generic/gold standard brotherly advice. Especially during those few days before pay. Those days when he'd be scrapping for every breadcrumb, when he'd polish (sometimes devour) those Southern Fried chicken bones. Yes, the fast food joint was always there for him. Through thick and thin (wallet).

Those were the days, he would say when his (occasional) nostalgic and sentimental side pops up. Now being a vital cog of the Konoha cipher squad, Shikamaru moved to an apartment in the Office District. Literally a shuriken's throw from his office. And in this upmarket neighbourhood, you'd dream of finding trashy eateries as That Fast Food Joint.

A few years ago Tsunade sent him two countries away, in some obscure joint partnership 3-year course in some obscure town which specialises in neutral zone colleges. He was sent there to represent Konoha's cipher ops. Long story short, he lived a peaceful college life, far away from blood and steel of the Shinobi world. Of course, tension between students of warring factions were not uncommon. But these situations were dealt with swiftly and critically, without bloodshed.

Even though he wouldn't admit it (under his unenthusiastic, snarky guise) Shikamaru greatly enjoyed those 3 years of his life. And with his rather godsent brain power, he had the audacity to snooze through lectures or play hooky and still end up top of the faculty. Or thereabouts. So he was free to do what he desired. And half the time you'd find him laze around the college grassy knolls, with a topically irrelevant book sheltering his face from the sun. And inevitably, this was how Ino, Sakura, Chouji and Naruto found him when they came for a visit, shinobi outfit notwithstanding. And inevitably, received a literal kick up the backside from Ino, with perfect and efficient taijutsu technique (to boot).

Fifteen minutes later, they would be seated in that fast food joint, leaving their table manners somewhere in the Fire Country. Shikamaru once promised himself, should he receive visitors from Konoha, friend or family, he would take them to the fast food joint. It was after all, one of the best things (in his opinion) this collegiate town had to offer. And boy was he proud to see his closest friends literally wolfing down burgers and fries with such indelible gusto.

He had a bewildering sense of attachment to the fast food joint, bordering on emotional. Like a sense of belonging. He could see himself staunchly defending the fast food joint, eyes bleeding, shadow vanishing, fighting until his last breath. Like how he would readily sever an arm or two to protect Konoha. Such was its unexplainable importance to him.

But most importantly, that day was the one and only time Ino found herself in the fastfood joint.

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It's been close to four years since he last step foot in the fast food joint, in that obscure collegiate town. But in his mind, clouded by nostalgia, the fast food joint was as unchanged as his knack of spotting perfect grassy knolls to nap on. In his mind, the fast food joint stood proud, loud and ugly. Those flashy colours embellished with the gaudy advertisements. Smell of grease and chicken fat wafting through its vents. The gold standard smiles of the patrons. The throngs of youths shoveling fries down their windpipe, clad in tacky 90s Disney costumes.

In his mind, it remains unyieldingly beautiful. An acquired taste.

Thus, he could never explain his disarray and disorientation within that week-long episodic dream he had. The fast food joint was a shadow of its proud, gaudy self. The streets, even shadier and murkier. The discoloured state of the fast food joint brought a sense of realism to his dream. Was he dreaming? It felt powerfully real. He felt a chill, a mid autumn night chill. The streets wide open sans crowds of famished and intoxicated youth. It left behind a stretch of silence so real, he could make out a Chopin piano sonata being practised in some neighbouring crumbling apartment. Again he questioned himself. Was he dreaming?

He pushed open the glass door. The mediocre lighting was perfectly matched by one depressingly mediocre-looking patron waiting for customers behind one desolate counter. The bright interior, the colourful seats and tables, the signed & framed athlete photos, the big flatscreen with music videos of scantily clad black women grinding to some flavour of the week rapper. Gone. In its place, two sets of somber cushioned seats, seemingly dilapidated round tables, small dusty windows, dried tulips and the dry hum of the mediocre fluorescent lights. The patron greeted him politely. Shikamaru checked the menu. Essentially the same things they used to have, down to their pricings. But now they seem closer to cobwebbed theatre props in his eyes.

He ordered a cheeseburger before seating himself on the somber cushioned seats. All this while trying to keep his expressions and breathing in check. His heart galloping insanely. Where was the music? The so called music which often drowned out conversations and inner monologues. He suddenly yearned for those. Drying his palms on his khakis as he racked his brain, figuring out 'what in God's name happened here?', his cheeseburger arrived. With a complimentary cup of coffee. The patron returned to his seat behind the counter, eyes affixed to the small dusty windows, blending into the silence and colourlessness.

Shikamaru stared at the cheeseburger. It was the loneliest burger he had ever seen. Fading in its lonely sepia hue. Was his eyes playing tricks? He shoved the burger aside. He sipped the black coffee. No cream. No sugar. He leaned back on the somber cushioned seats, spiked ponytail leaning on the somber headrests. The neighbourhood Chopin piano sonata stumbled its way to the fifth movement. At the far end of the wall, a mediocre medium sized rack of used books. He could make out a browned, dried Murakami book from where he was seated. Books in the fast food joint? Preposterous!

Shikamaru sat up straight. The place has somehow turned into a cafe. The most melancholic cafe one could imagine. A cafe serving burgers and other greasy shenanigans, enveloped with random Chopin sonatas. A cafe.

Then a knock on the small dusty windows. He turned wearily. White fleece. Platinum blonde hair. Cerulean eyes. Flushed cheeks.

Ino.

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She sat down across him, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Hands neatly placed on her laps, she looked up. He managed to put up an expressionless mask, hiding away his disorientation and confusion, like dirt swept under a rug. Eyes affixed onto each other, lips pursed tightly, the amateur Chopin impersonator segues into a different, simpler piece. Words were not uttered for a long while.

Before it became too long for his liking, the patron appeared beside them serving her a plate of fries and a cup of red tea. She chipped in with a pinch of sugar and stirred it gently. It was as if she had been regularly coming here in this fast food joint of his dreams. Every night, the same time, the same seat, the same white fleece, the same plate of fries, the same cup of tea and the same pinch of sugar. As if she had been waiting for him to set foot into this shadow of a fast food joint.

It took her a while to start talking. These days it wouldn't look out of place to have Ino hold her tongue and present a graceful, contemplating silence on the dinner table. He became pleasantly used to it. She took a sip of her warm tea, eyes never averting from his. He stirred his black coffee for the umpteenth time.

"So", she began, leaving the word hanging for a pregnant second.

Was he dreaming? The whole thing was so vivid, so realistic, so detailed. Ino was (to him) at her most purest, most beautiful form. No make up. No excess accessories. Just the Team 10 earrings glistening weakly in the mediocre fluorescent lighting. Was he even sleeping? He had never felt so awake. Not even during the Allied Shinobi war. His eyes trained upon her brilliant white, perfectly aligned teeth as she continued,

"So I was reading up on the Fibonacci sequence. Do you know of it Shika?"

Of course he knew about the Fibonacci sequence. It was after all, an important tool for Konoha's cipher squad modus operandi. He could talk about it all night if he was inclined to. Hell, he can even recite it backwards in Greek.

So they talked about the Fibonacci sequence all night, never once straying from the topic. She was quaintly curious about it. The history, the patent, the theory, Fibonacci the person, how they implemented it in his line of work and even made him crack a Fibonacci related joke. The less said about that, the better. Thank God it was only a dream, he found himself saying. Was he aware that it was a dream? Yes, he was more sure of it now. This conversation was the singlemost inane, random and irrelevantly serious verbal exchange he had ever engaged in. Much less so with Ino.

Then suddenly, like a wind-up bird, the conversation ceased in perfect sync with the ending of the Chopin impersonator's jumbled sonata. Similar to the sound a cassette tape makes when it switches over to Side B. Without a word, she stood up, still with that playful smile, motioning him to do the same. They left the fast food joint, shadows long and intertwined, rhythmic echoes of footfalls bouncing off the distasteful apartment walls, deftly compounded by the stifling silence. They strolled a few blocks away before they found themselves in front of a two-storey house so haggard and beaten by the elements, its paintchips coming off at the hint of the autumn breeze.

Wordlessly, she led him in. Odourless corridors, poorly lit and devoid of colour. Softly creaking stairways. Doors lacking in character. Minimalist furnishings. Desolate. Wordlessly, she ushered him inside a room, seating themselves on the strictly-functional, no-nonsense bed. Wordlessly, their eyes locked onto each other. Wordlessly, efficiently, they removed each other's clothes.

Wordlessly, they had intercourse.

Then he awoke. Just before dawn. His heart pulsing in overdrive. His skin saturated with sweat. His throat parched. His boxers freshly soiled. His head halfway to Honolulu. It took him some time to recalibrate his bearings and replace his undergarments. He drank off the tap. He sat on his bed, hair to his shoulders, dishevelled. Like a lion's mane. Then he phoned up a groggy Chouji for breakfast. God knows how much he needed those generic/gold standard brotherly advice they used to offer on the fast food joint.

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Thanks for reading. It would be nice to have a review ;)


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